IX

When he returned from Wind River, Kent determined, after clearing off

what work had accumulated in his absence, to pay a visit to Edith

Garwood. He sent no advance notice of his coming, and her surprise at

seeing him was considerably more apparent than any joy she might have

felt; for she was carrying on an interesting affair with a young

gentleman who really did not know the extent of resources which had been

in his family in the form of real estate for something over a century.

It was most annoying that Joe Kent should turn up just then.

"I'm just going out," she said. "Why didn't you tell me you were

coming?"

"No particular reason," said Joe, feeling the coolness of his reception.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I have made engagements which I can't very well

break, even for you. If you had told me----"

"Don't worry," said Joe. "I'll take what's left. You're going out, and I

shan't keep you. May I call to-night?"

That evening happened to be blank. She gave him the desired permission,

and feeling that she had perhaps shown her irritation too plainly, asked

him to accompany her.

"It's an afternoon affair," she explained, "and of course you won't care

to come in; but you may see me that far if you like, and the car will

set you down anywhere."

As they entered the waiting car a gentleman on the other side of the

street raised his hat. Miss Garwood bowed, and Joe acknowledged the

salute mechanically. It was only when the car shot by the pedestrian

that he recognized him as Mr. Stanley Ackerman.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Do you know that fellow?"

"Really, Joe," she replied, "I wish you wouldn't speak of my father's

friends in that way." Her annoyance was genuine, but his words were not

the cause of it. She disliked Ackerman and distrusted him. Also he knew

the young man with the real estate pedigree.

"I can't congratulate your father on that particular friend," Kent

observed bluntly, and became thoughtful.

Mr. Ackerman looked after the car and became thoughtful also. Shortly

afterward he entered Hugh Garwood's office.

The president of the O. & N. would have been spare and shapely if he had

taken ordinary exercise; but being far too busy a man to spend any time

on the trifling matter of physical well-being his figure had run to

seed. Only his head was lean and alertly poised, by virtue of the keen,

ever-working brain within. The face was narrow, hard, and determined;

and the mouth, set awry beneath the close-clipped gray moustache, was

ruthless and grim. It was, in fact, a fairly good indication of his

character and methods. He was never known to forego an advantage of any

kind, and he was accustomed to bludgeon opponents into submission

without being particular where he cut his clubs.

"Well, Ackerman," he said, "what's the news?"

Mr. Ackerman had no news. It was a fine day, though cool. Beautiful

weather. Made a man want to be outdoors.

Garwood grunted. He was not interested in the weather, save as it

affected business. Snow blockades and wash-outs and natural phenomena

producing them received his attention. Apart from such things he

scarcely knew whether a day was fine or not.

"All very well for people who have time to burn," he commented. "I

haven't."

"Young people enjoy it," said Mr. Ackerman, getting his opening. "I saw

your daughter go by in a car as I came downtown. Lovely girl that. I

thought she looked remarkably well and happy."

"She ought to be happy," said her father grimly. "She spends enough

money."

"You can afford it. It won't be long till some one else is paying her

bills. Plenty of young men would think it a privilege."

Garwood, from his knowledge of Mr. Ackerman's indirect methods of

approach, suddenly regarded him with attention.

"What are you driving at, anyway, Ackerman?" he asked. "_You_ don't want

to marry her, do you?"

Mr. Ackerman disclaimed any such desire with haste and evident

sincerity. "There was a very good-looking young fellow with her this

afternoon," he observed.

"Trust her for that," growled Garwood. "Who was it? Young Statten?"

"No," said Mr. Ackerman slowly, enjoying the sensation in advance, "his

name is Kent, Joseph Kent of Falls City."

"What?" cried Garwood, and straightened in his chair as if he had

received a shock, as indeed he had.

"Yes," said Mr. Ackerman. "You remember she was in Falls City for some

weeks this summer. I heard somewhere--you know how these things get

about--that she and Kent were--well, in fact, I heard that they were

together a great deal."

Garwood rapped out a man's size oath. "Why didn't you tell me this

before?"

"Knowing Miss Edith's penchant for innocent summer flirtations I

attached no importance to it," smiled Mr. Ackerman.

Garwood sat frowning. "You may be right. That girl would flirt with a

man's shadow. However, I'll put a stop to this at once. Now see here,

Ackerman, you've bungled the Kent matter so far."

"I have not," denied Mr. Ackerman indignantly. "He simply would not

sell. That's not my fault."

Garwood dismissed the protest with an impatient gesture. "The fact

remains that I haven't got what I'm after. Crooks's business and Kent's

are all that prevent us from controlling the lumber market on the O. &

N. and the Peninsular. Crooks is pretty strong, but this winter must

break Kent, and after that we'll get Crooks. We absolutely must have the

water powers which Kent owns. He has a fortune in them, if he only knew

it and had money enough to develop them, and we also need his mills. We

must have these things, and there must be no mistake about it."

"If he doesn't deliver the logs he has contracted to deliver----"

Ackerman began, but Garwood cut him short.

"It must be made impossible for him to deliver them. If he makes good it

gives him a new lease of life and delays our plans; but if he doesn't

cut the logs he can't deliver them, whether his drive is hung up or

not."

"It was against my advice that his tender for the Wind River limits went

through."

"I know. But he could ill afford to put up the cash for them. His credit

is becoming badly strained. A small cut or non-delivery will be fatal to

him."

"But how can we prevent his cutting?"

"Really, Ackerman, you are dense to-day," said Garwood. "Clancy Brothers

have timber near Wind River. We can't touch the other camps, so far as I

can see at present, but if you represent matters properly to the Clancys

I think they will look after that one."

When Garwood went home that evening he called his daughter into his

private room and went straight to the point.

"Now, Edith," said he, "I want to know what there is between you and

young Kent."

She flushed angrily, immediately fixing the responsibility for the leak

on Ackerman. "Who told you there was anything between us?"

"Never mind. Is it a fact?"

"Is what a fact?"

"Don't beat about the bush with me. How far has this flirtation of yours

gone?"

"Not very far," she answered calmly. "Mr. Kent has merely asked me to

marry him."

"What!" cried Garwood, "you don't mean to tell me you're engaged?"

"I suppose we are--in a way."

"This must stop," said Garwood. "I thought you had more sense. You can't

marry him. He is a nobody; he is on the verge of bankruptcy; he is

merely after my money."

She cast a sidewise glance at a long mirror and laughed at the lovely

reflection. "You are not complimentary, papa. Don't you think a young

man might fall in love with me for myself?"

"I am not talking of love, but of marriage," said Garwood cynically. "I

won't have it, I tell you. You must drop Kent now."

"Why?"

"Because I say so," said her father, his mouth setting firmly. "I won't

mince matters with you, Edith. Inside a year Kent will be looking for a

clerk's job. You're not cut out for a poor man's wife."

"You mean that if I married him you would give me nothing?"

"You grasp my meaning exactly. Not a cent during my life nor after my

death."

Edith Garwood sighed as plaintively as she could; but it was in fact a

sigh of relief. It was put up to her so squarely that she had no choice,

as she looked at it. She was already tired of Kent, anxious for an

excuse to break with him, and she had secretly dreaded the affair coming

to her father's knowledge. Now the worst was over. And she saw an

opportunity of avoiding a scene with Joe, which she had dreaded also.

"Of course I haven't been brought up to marry a poor man," she said. "We

would both be miserable, if it came to that. So it would be a mistake,

wouldn't it?"

"Undoubtedly," responded Garwood, who, having carried his point much

more easily than he expected, found a certain amusement in her mental

processes, as one is entertained by the antics of a kitten.

"Then I suppose I shall have to give him up," she continued, with

another beautifully plaintive sigh. "He is to call to-night. Will you

tell him? Or shall I write him a note?"

"No doubt you know the correct procedure," said Garwood. "Write your

note and give it to me. Make it firm and definite."

She nodded agreement. "And now, papa, don't you think I am a very

dutiful, self-sacrificing daughter?"

Garwood reached for his check-book with a smile of grim comprehension.

"How much does it cost me this time?" he asked.

When Joe called that evening he was shown into Hugh Garwood's study. The

railway man, seated at his desk, eyed him keenly. Kent found the

scrutiny unfriendly, and stiffened.

"I called to see Miss Garwood," said he. "My name is Kent."

"Sit down, Mr. Kent," said Garwood. "My daughter has given me this note

for you. Will you please read it."

Joe read. It was brief and to the point, and wound up with perfunctory

regrets. There was no possibility of misunderstanding it. He folded the

missive.

"I presume you know the contents of this letter, Mr. Garwood?"

"I am aware of them, yes."

"Miss Garwood says that you object to her engagement to me. Will you

kindly tell me why?"

"With pleasure. You are not in a position to marry, and you entrapped my

daughter into a clandestine engagement, which was not a manly thing to

do. In fact, to put it very plainly, you are trying to marry money."

"To put it just as plainly," said Joe, flushing, "I don't care about

your money at all. I am in a position to marry. The secret engagement I

own up to and take the blame for. I shouldn't have consented to it."

"Consented?" said Garwood sharply. "Then it was my daughter who

suggested that?"

"Not at all," said Joe, lying manfully as he felt bound to do after the

slip. "It was my fault entirely."

Garwood smiled cynically. "You needn't shoulder all the blame. I know

her better than you do." He was rather surprised at the equanimity with

which Kent accepted his dismissal. He had looked for a stormy interview

with a disappointed, unreasonable youth who would protest and indulge in

heroics. He felt quite kindly toward this young man, whose business,

nevertheless, he intended to smash. Inwardly he made a note to offer him

some sort of a job when that was accomplished. "I take back what I said

a moment ago. But you must understand that there can be nothing between

you and my daughter."

"I think I understand that very well," said Joe. "Glad to have made your

acquaintance, Mr. Garwood. By the way, please tell Mr. Ackerman I

recognized him to-day. Good night."

Edith Garwood, peeping from behind a drawn blind, expected to see an

utterly crushed being slink from the house. What she saw was an erect

young man who paused on the steps to light a cigar, cocked it up at a

jaunty angle, and went down the street head up and shoulders back.

In fact, Joe Kent was shaking hands with himself. He had known for some

time that his feeling for Edith Garwood fell far short of love; but as

he looked at it, he could not tell her so. So that his dismissal,

instead of plunging him into the depths of gloom, boosted his spirits

sky-high.

"Thank the Lord!" he exclaimed fervently as he swung down the street.

"Joe, my son, let this be a lesson to you. Cut out the girl proposition

and stick to business." He became thoughtful. "So old Ackerman's a

friend of Garwood's. And Garwood tells me I'm not in a position to

marry. I wonder how he knows so much about it? I wonder----" He did not

complete the sentence, but Garwood's words stuck in his recollection.

X

When Mr. Ackerman, following the hint received from Garwood, called at

the office of Clancy Brothers, his reception was nothing short of

frosty.

John Clancy was alone, and he regarded his visitor from beneath a

lowering brow.

"Now, here's what I want to know about," said he. "How does it come that

Kent gets them limits at Wind River? We tendered for them ourselves."

"Likely his tender was higher," said Mr. Ackerman with assumed

carelessness.

"An' what's that got to do wid it?" demanded Clancy, who appeared to

find this explanation inadequate. "Don't we give up strong to th'

campaign fund? Neither young Kent nor his father ever gave a cent to it,

and their politics is the other way. It's a raw deal we got, an' ye can

say that we'll remember it. If them limits had gone to one of our own

people we'd have said nawthin', for we could have fixed it wid him or

he'd a had to fix it wid us. But th' way it is we're sore, an' we make

no bones about sayin' so. Where's his pull, that's what we want to know?

An' if it's come to this, that a young felly whose politics is agin ye

an' who don't give up to th' fund can buy limits ahead of us, why, then,

we're through an' be damned to ye! An' there's others who thinks the

same way."

This unusually long and evidently heartfelt speech of Clancy's indicated

a dissatisfaction which Mr. Ackerman, who held confidential relations

with certain members of a thoroughly rotten and graft-ridden

administration, could not afford to ignore.

"Oh, that's nonsense, Clancy," said Ackerman. "There was a reason why

Kent got the limits and we'll see that you get something else."

"We want what we go after, an' we don't have to take what's handed to

us," retorted Clancy unappeased. "See now, Ackerman, we know a thing or

two. Here's Kent been makin' up to ould Garwood's girl. Garwood works

his pull, an' th' limits goes to Kent. I have it from the inside that

Garwood got them for him. Now, I'm not settin' our pull agin

Garwood's--not by no manes--but we will not be used by you to

double-cross him. We want no trouble wid Garwood."

"What do you mean?" Ackerman queried.

"I mane this: You tip us off to make a new contract wid Kent bekase the

railway will raise the rates on boards. Ye don't do that for love of us,

nor yet for a rake-off, for ye asked for none. So ye do it to hit Kent.

Then he tenders for timber limits, an' Garwood, bekase the young man is

keepin' company wid his daughter, sees he gets them. You an' Garwood do

be thick together, an' it's strange you're knockin' his

son-in-law-to-be. Me an' Finn will have no more to do wid it."

Mr. Ackerman chuckled at Clancy's very natural mistake. "If you think

Garwood is a friend of Kent's you're wrong."

"Show me," said Clancy.

"There's nothing now between Garwood's daughter and Kent," responded

Ackerman. "If Garwood had cared to use his influence for him the

Peninsular would not have raised the rate on lumber. That's obvious

enough, I should think."

"I'm talkin' about them limits," said Clancy obstinately.

"Well, admitting that Garwood is responsible for that, he had his

reasons other than the one you mentioned. Kent has sunk a lot of money

in that timber. He may not get it out again."

"Ye mane that the limits was onloaded onto him to tie up his cash

resources?" said Clancy, comprehending.

"I didn't say so," said Mr. Ackerman, smiling sweetly, "but his business

is involved already, and if anything unforeseen should occur he might

smash."

"An' somebody might buy him in," Clancy commented with an appreciative

grin. "I wish ye luck, but what do we get in place of our tender that

was turned down?"

"Let me know what you want and I'll do my best for you," Ackerman

promised. "Now, I understand you have some timber near Kent's Wind River

limits?"

"Buttin' onto 'em at one line," Clancy replied. "That's why we

tendered--to round out our holdin'."

"Are you cutting it this winter?"

"We are."

"Yourselves?"

"We jobbed it out."

"That's too bad," said Mr. Ackerman in disappointment. "I suppose the

jobber is a good man?"

"A good man!" echoed John Clancy. "Is Rough Shan McCane a good man? If

there's a worse one anywheres I never seen him."

"Then why did you give him the stuff to cut?"

"Bekase he'll put in the logs. He can drive a crew, drunk or sober."

"I thought liquor wasn't allowed in the camps?"

"No more it is--in most."

"I suppose," said Mr. Ackerman casually, "that if whiskey got into

Kent's camp his work would suffer?"

John Clancy eyed him keenly. "Two an' two makes four," he said

oracularly. "What are ye drivin' at? Put it in plain words."

Mr. Ackerman put it as plainly as his bias in favour of indirect speech

would permit. Clancy considered with pursed mouth.

"These things works both ways," he said. "A loggin' war, wanst started

bechune two camps, means hell an' docthers' bills to pay, to say

nawthin' of lost time. What would we get out of it?"

Mr. Ackerman told him, prudently sinking his voice to little more than a

whisper, and Clancy's eyes glistened.

"Them's good contracts," he commented. "I'll speak to Finn. He has it in

for Kent."

This partial assurance seemed to satisfy Mr. Ackerman. "Is Kent still

delivering lumber under your contract?" he asked.

"He is--as slow as he can. Ryan says we can't have the law on him for

breach of contract yet. I had him write a letter makin' a bluff, an'

Kent's lawyer wrote back callin' it. So there ye are."

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped," said Mr. Ackerman regretfully. But

on the whole he was very well satisfied with the position of affairs,

and left Clancy's office wearing the peculiarly bland, guileless smile

which was his whenever he had succeeded in arranging a particularly

unpleasant programme for some one else. The smile, however, lost

something of its quality when, just outside the street door, he ran into

Locke.

The lawyer glanced from him to Clancy Brothers' window lettering and

back again, and smiled. His expression somehow reminded Mr. Ackerman of

a dog that has found an exceedingly choice bone.

"Hallo, Ackerman!" said he. "What are you framing up now?"

"I don't think I understand you," said Mr. Ackerman with dignity.

"Well, here's something I wanted to ask you," Locke went on. "Is it a

fact that the O. & N.--otherwise Garwood--has secured control of the

Peninsular?"

The question was so entirely unexpected that Mr. Ackerman was almost

caught off his guard, but he said:

"Control of the Peninsular? You must be joking."

"It is not a fact, then?" asked Locke.

"He may have bought some shares. But control--oh, no! that would be most

unlikely. Our shares are all too strongly held."

"Not an impossibility, however?" Locke persisted.

"Humanly speaking, anything is possible," smiled Mr. Ackerman, getting

his second wind. "Rumours are most unreliable things."

"Yes," Locke assented. "When did you and Garwood go into the lumber

business?"

Once more Mr. Ackerman was taken flat aback. Figuratively speaking, he

even gathered sternway. He simply stared at Locke for a moment.

"The--lumber--business?" he exclaimed, recovering power of speech. "My

dear sir, I am not in the lumber business, save for a few shares which I

own here and there."

"No?" Locke smiled unpleasant, open disbelief. "How about Garwood?"

"Why don't you ask him?" said Mr. Ackerman with unnecessary tartness.

"I will, one of these days," said Locke. "By the way, I'm going to

subpoena both of you in my application to the commission."

"That will come on next year, I believe," said Mr. Ackerman with

something very like a sneer.

"Probably next month," Locke retorted. "Good morning."

Locke's words were by no means random shots. Once convinced that

Ackerman represented some person or persons inimical to Kent and Crooks,

he sought for a clue. One by one he went over Ackerman's business

associates, including Garwood, and discarded them one by one. Then came

the rumour of Garwood's acquisition of the Peninsular, an acquisition

almost coincident with the rise in rates. Therefore, Locke argued,

Garwood somehow benefited by it. But how? The railway man was not known

to be interested in lumber. Still, as Locke saw it, he must be.

"Here," said Locke to himself, "is this Central Lumber Company officered

by dummies, capitalized for a mere trifle, and yet acquiring business

after business. Why the secrecy? Who is behind it? Obviously some man or

men who don't wish their identity known until they have accomplished a

certain purpose. What is the purpose? So far it seems to be the buying

out of existing lumber concerns. Ackerman approached Kent. For whom?

Probably for this Central Lumber Company. Therefore Ackerman is one of

those behind it. Ackerman's influence has been unfriendly to Kent in

every way. Garwood no sooner acquired control of Peninsular stock than

the rate on lumber was boosted. Ackerman is associated with him.

Therefore it is not a wild hypothesis to say that Garwood is financing

the Central Lumber Company."

Thus Locke argued to himself, and he found fresh confirmation in the

methods adopted toward Kent, which were typically those of Hugh Garwood.

Then, too, Mr. Ackerman's evident discomposure when directly charged

with association with him in a lumber business was suspicious.

He arrived at these conclusions quite independently and mentioned them

to no one. His surprise, therefore, was great when Joe Kent, dropping in

one morning, asked what he knew about Hugh Garwood.

"Did it ever strike you," Joe asked, "that he may be the man behind?"

"It did," Locke answered, "but tell me how it happened to strike you."

"Well--it just occurred to me," replied Joe, embarrassed.

"Give up, give up," said the lawyer impatiently. "Don't hold out on your

doctor, your banker, or your lawyer."

Thereupon Joe, under pledge of secrecy, outlined the conjunction of

events. It was a slight thing, but another corroboratory circumstance.

Suppressing Joe's part, Locke mentioned his suspicions to Crooks.

"I'll bet a thousand you're right," said the old lumberman thoughtfully.

"Garwood, hey? He's the last man I'd have suspected. And usually the

last man you suspect is the first man you ought to. It's just like him

to cut a man's throat and then pick his pocket. Why, damn him"--Bill

Crooks' voice rose in indignation--"his girl visited my girl for a month

last summer. You know that, Joe; you used to trot around with her."

Joe reddened. Crooks went on:

"Well, what can we do about it? This is up to you, Locke. Start your

game and I'll back it. So will Joe."

"I haven't got enough evidence to start anything," said Locke. "I hope

to prove Garwood's connection with the Peninsular when our application

to the Transportation Commission comes up for hearing. Outside of that

our best chance lies in investigating this Central Lumber Company. I'll

see what I can find out about them and you'd better get busy along the

same line and pump every lumberman and dealer you know."

Kent's good spirits and increased cheerfulness were so noticeable that

Jack Crooks, knowing of his recent flying trip, drew her own

conclusions. Casually one evening she approached the subject.

"Of course you saw Edith?"

"Oh, yes, I saw her," Joe replied.

"She must have been very glad to see you?"

Joe smiled enigmatically. "Well, Jack, she didn't exactly fall on my

neck. I don't think I brightened up life for her to any extent."

"Modest young man. Are you aware that you have worn a sunny smile ever

since you returned? You can't bluff me, Joe. Why don't you own up?"

"Own up to what?" Joe's smile became a broad grin.

Jack thought he looked idiotically pleased. To her eyes his face

expressed the good-natured fatuity of the recently engaged man who

rather likes to be joked about it--a being whom she despised. She was

disappointed in Joe.

"If you expect me to jolly you into admitting your engagement to her

you're making a mistake," she said coldly. "I can wait till you see fit

to announce it."

"Are you sure you can?" he teased.

"Very nicely. And I beg your pardon for what must have seemed an

impertinent curiosity." She regarded him with an icy dignity.

"Fine speech, that," Joe commented genially. "It's from some third act,

isn't it? And then I say: 'Ah, Beatrice, why that cold and haughty tone?

Me life holds no secrets from you: me heart----'"

"Joe Kent, I'll throw something at you!" she cried indignantly. Then she

laughed. "Joe, I'll come down to the ploughed ground. You and Edith were

very much taken with each other, and when you come back, wearing an

idiotic grin, I'm entitled to suppose. I confess to curiosity. Come,

now; give up, like a good boy!"

"There's nothing to give up," said Joe frankly. "Not a thing."

"I know better," said Jack. "Edith was in a very confidential mood one

night and she told me something. Afterward she regretted it and swore me

to secrecy. Does that make any difference?"

"Not much," said Joe. "But now I can tell you that I've been thrown down

hard. What you spoke of is very much off." He outlined what had

occurred. She listened, indignant but puzzled.

"But--but you seem so cheerful about it. I don't understand. Weren't you

fond of her? And if you weren't, why did you tell her you were? And if

you were, why----"

"Stop!" cried Joe. "Don't get me in so deep." He became serious. "Jack,

most people make mistakes at times. Edith and I made one together. I

think we both saw it as soon as it was made, but it took all this time

to straighten out. I'm sure she's relieved, and, though it doesn't seem

a nice thing to say, I'm just tickled to death."

"Well," said Jack judicially, "I don't approve of flirting, and I never

flirt myself. I think she was flirting straight through, and I don't

know whether to blame you or not. But, anyway, I'm awfully glad it's all

off."

"It's great," said Joe. "Now I can get down to work."

There was, indeed, much to be done. Wright looked after the

manufacturing and sales end of the business and looked after it well;

McKenna was an excellent walking boss; MacNutt, Deever, and Tobin were

good, practical foremen. But the concern lacked a strong, competent

executive head who knew the logging business intimately, who could

decide at once and finally the questions that must ever arise, and who

could command the loyalty and unquestioning obedience of his men in the

camps.

For there is a vast difference in the mind of a lumber jack between

working for wages merely and working for an employer. For the one he

will do a day's work; for the other he will do a day's work and a half,

with the pay as an entirely secondary consideration. Just as great

commanders have fired their troops with enthusiasm to the point of

performing practical impossibilities through pride in them and in

themselves and that magic, mystic thing called _esprit du corps_, so

there have been employers who, in time of need, command the unswerving,

uncomplaining loyalty of the shantyman. For such men he will work

without grumbling in all kinds of weather; he will take all manner of

chances on land or water; he will fight for them at the drop of a hat;

and, finally, he will throw his loyalty into each lick of axe and pull

of saw, so that at the end of the season it may be measured in saw logs.

Nor does this depend wholly or even materially upon the treatment

accorded him by the "Old Man"--save that he must have a square deal. He

may be driven like a mule, cursed in language for which he would kill

any one else, fed poorly and housed worse; but if the essential thing is

possessed by the boss the lumber jack will not grumble overmuch nor ask

for his time.

And this essential is mysterious and hard to define. Much as the

shantyman admires physical prowess, it is not a prime requisite. But

courage is, and so is firmness in dealing with any situation. The boss

must never recede from a position once taken. He may listen to advice,

but he must decide for himself and by himself. He must never argue, he

must never give reasons. He must hold himself aloof and above his men,

and yet not overdo it. He must be approachable but dignified, friendly

but not familiar. He must be boss, first, last, and all the time, and

from his decisions, right or wrong, there must be no appeal and of them

no slackness of enforcement.

William Kent had filled this bill. With his passing a place became

vacant. Some of the old hands hired again into the Kent camps; more did

not come back, but went to others of renown. New blood drifted in, and a

generation arose which literally knew not Joseph--to whom the name of

Kent meant nothing. The old hands would have fought at one word uttered

against the "Old Man's" son, whom most of them had never seen, but they

would have done so on general principles merely, and not because they

cherished any particular feeling toward him. Neither walking boss nor

foreman could take the place which William Kent had filled.

Thus the work of the camps was no better and no worse than the average.

The foremen's capability ensured fair effort. But the something

necessary to weld the crews into a supremely efficient machine was

lacking.

The winter opened hard and dry, without snowfall. Day after day the wind

wailed through the bare arms of the deciduous trees and moaned in the

feathery tops of the pines. The ground was frozen to an iron hardness,

and the little lakes, creeks, and rivers were bound in black ice, smooth

and unbroken.

At the Wind River camp the logging roads--veins leading to main arteries

which in turn led to the river and the banking grounds--were useless. By

dint of effort and good luck logs could be got to the various skidways

located at convenient places beside the roads, and piled there, but they

could not be transported farther. The big sleighs with their nine-foot

bunks, built to accommodate ten thousand feet and upward of logs at a

load, lay idle. MacNutt prayed for snow, or, rather, cursed the lack of

it.

When it came, with continued cold weather, it was hard, dry, and

powdery. It had no bottom. It gritted like sand beneath the

sleigh-shoes, and they went through it to the ground, even without a

load. To obviate this and to get going in some way MacNutt put the

sprinklers to work. These were huge tank affairs on runners, drawn by

from four to six horses. At the top of the tank was a stout, wooden

triangle with a block. A wire rope ran through the block. At one end of

the rope was a barrel; at the other end was a horse. The horse walked

away; the barrel, filled at a water-hole cut in the ice, ran up an

inclined, rungless ladder to the top of the tank, where it dumped its

contents automatically. The water found its exit from the tank through

auger holes bored in the rear, controlled by a closely fitting trap

door. Thus the roads were flooded, they froze, and the hauling began.

So far MacNutt had seen nothing of Rough Shan McCane. Occasionally on a

Sunday, when work was suspended, one of the latter's men would drift

over, but the gang kept very much to themselves. There was no indication

of undue sociability. Still MacNutt, on the principle that storms always

brew in fine weather, kept a very open pair of eyes and ears. Some of

the men, he knew, could not resist liquor; given access to it they would

become drunk as certainly as effect ever follows cause. Over these weak

vessels, then, he kept watch.

It was shortly after the road went into operation that he found the

first sign of trouble. A swamper, named Flett, was trimming the top of a

fallen tree. MacNutt observed the listless rise and fall of the man's

axe in high displeasure. It fell almost of its own weight; there was no

power to the blow, and instead of being recovered and swung up again

with vim for another stroke the blade lay for an appreciable instant in

the gash.

"You, Flett," rasped MacNutt, "I'll have no sojerin' on this job!

Understand?"

The man turned, startled, exhibiting a pair of reddened, bloodshot eyes.

"Who's sojerin'?" he growled.

"Wake up an' work, ye damned lazy dog!" roared MacNutt. "Take a man's

pay, eat a man's grub, an' then loaf on the job, would ye, ye

slab-mouthed, slouchin' son of sin?" For the first time he noticed the

man's eyes, and swore a great oath. "Ye've been drinkin'!"

"I ain't," Flett denied sullenly.

"Ye lie!" barked MacNutt. "Where did ye get it?"

"Go to blazes!" said Flett.

MacNutt caught him by the throat, crooked a knee, and threw him back

down across the log with a shock that almost broke his spine.

"Talk, ye dog, or I'll kill ye!" he gritted; and Flett, staring up

helpless and half stunned into the savage face of the foreman, gave up.

"Regan and me got a bottle apiece from a man in McCane's camp."

MacNutt jerked him to his feet and turned him loose. "Get yer time

to-night and hike in the morning!" he ordered. "You're fired! Not

because ye got drunk, but for bein' no use, drunk or sober."

He sought Regan. Regan was doing a man's work, and doing it well.

"I've fired Flett," said MacNutt without preliminary. "I'll have no

booze in this camp, Regan."

Regan, who was made of different stuff than his fellow-transgressor,

spat on the dry snow and regarded the foreman with a level stare.

"Do I get my time?" he asked.

"Not unless you want it," MacNutt replied. "I can do with ye or without

ye. Suit yourself. But I'll have no more of it."

"A drink now an' then hurts no man," said Regan.

"It raises Cain with a camp, and you know it," MacNutt retorted.

"That's true enough," admitted Regan, who was not unreasonable, "but the

boys over to McCane's camp shoved it at us. They've plenty there."

MacNutt said no more. He could not forbid his men from strolling on

Sunday, when there was nothing else to do, over the few miles which

separated the two camps. But he could and did issue a warning that any

man bringing liquor into the camp would get his time forthwith.

He saw no man drunk, but the little signs were unmistakable. The

percentage of quarrels and fights became higher; the bunk-house at

night, usually noisy, was now uproarious; some of the men obeyed with

less alacrity and grumbled with a great deal more; and through the

entire crew there spread a spirit of devil-may-care slackness very hard

indeed upon a foreman.

One Sunday MacNutt shouldered an axe and took the well-marked trail

which led through the forest to McCane's camp. Arrived at the compass

line dividing the limits, he sat down and lit his pipe. For an hour he

waited, smoking thoughtfully, watching the fluffy, impudent

whiskey-jacks. At the end of that time three men appeared down the trail

from McCane's. One carried a sack over his shoulder, and the sack bulged

suggestively in the shape of a two-gallon jug. MacNutt tapped out his

pipe and stepped into the trail.

"Where are you men headin' for?" he asked.

"None o' your business," replied the man with the sack.

"What's in that sack?" MacNutt demanded.

"Cold tea," answered the man, and the others laughed. MacNutt shut his

lips grimly.

"Go back and take your booze with you," he ordered; "and don't let me

catch you this side of that line again."

"Must think you own the woods," said he of the jug, slipping the bag

from his shoulder in readiness for trouble. "You go to hell!"

The axe resting on MacNutt's shoulder leaped forward and down in a

sweeping stroke. There was a crash of crockery and a sudden strong odour

of alcohol; following these a tremendous burst of profanity. The three

men rushed at MacNutt.

The foreman was not foolish enough to meet three hardened "bully-boys"

with his fists. His axe flashed up and just missed the head of the

leader in its descent. There was such evident deadly sincerity in the

blow that the men paused. MacNutt gave them no time. He charged them

instantly, axe aloft, and, prudence getting the better of anger, they

ran for their lives. MacNutt followed for a short distance, shouted a

final warning, and returned to camp. He did not think that he had put a

stop to the contraband traffic, but he had fired the first gun and made

his attitude clear.

The following day, as he was overseeing the work, Rough Shan McCane came

striding through the snow.

"What's this I hear about your chasing three of my men with an axe?" he

demanded.

"Well, what about it?" asked MacNutt indifferently, and the men near at

hand listened with all their ears.

"This much," said Rough Shan truculently. "My men have a right in the

woods, an' not you nor anny one else will stop them going where they

like."

"Well, I did stop them," retorted MacNutt. "I smashed a jug of booze

they were bringing to my camp, and I'd have split their heads if they

hadn't run."

This was news to the Kent men. MacNutt rose several notches in their

estimation. Regan, who had expected to share the contents of the jug and

had been disappointed by its non-arrival, whispered to Devlin:

"Ain't ould Mac th' bully-boy? I'd 'a' give a week's pay to 'a' seen

it."

"A jug of booze among fifty men!" sneered Rough Shan. "What's that?

Can't ye let the boys have a drink if they want it? An' if it was a

bar'l ain't ye man enough to be boss of yer own camp?"

"When I want your help to run it I'll send for you," rasped MacNutt.

"There's been booze comin' over from your camp, an' I'm goin' to stop

it; an' the way I stop it is my business."

"If you lay out a man of mine I'll take you to pieces," threatened Rough

Shan. "I done it once, an' I'll do it again."

MacNutt's eyes blazed. He caught Regan's axe and tossed it on the snow

before McCane. Himself he seized Devlin's.

"If you want a fight pick up that axe and go to it!" he cried.

McCane was rough and tough, but he had come to run a bluff rather than

to look for serious trouble, and a fight with axes was too cold-blooded

a proposition, even for him.

"I'll go ye with fists an' feet in a minute," he offered.

"No," MacNutt refused. "Take an axe. I want to kill ye!"

McCane was bluffed, to the huge delight of the Kent men.

"I'm no damn fool, if you are," he said. "Leave my men alone, an' I'll

leave you alone. But if you don't, I'll come over and take you apart."

"Bring your own axe," said MacNutt. "Now you get out o' here."

This conversation, retailed at the camp by Devlin, Regan, and others,

with such additions, mainly blasphemous, as the imagination of the

individual narrator could suggest, sent MacNutt's stock booming. The

lumber jack loves a fighter, and a man who could run three of McCane's

crew out of the woods and bluff Rough Shan himself was one after their

own hearts. Regan, himself a rough-and-tumble artist of considerable

ability, voiced the sentiments of the better men.

"I like me drink as well as anny man; but ould Mac is boss, an' what he

says goes wid me, after this. I'll save me thirst till the drive is

down, an' then--" An uplifting of the eyes and a licking of the lips

expressed more than mere words.

But many of the men did not see it in that way. If they could get liquor

they would drink it. Visitors from McCane's camp came empty-handed, and

Kent's men seldom went there. And yet there was liquor in the camp!

MacNutt could not account for it. He pondered the problem over many

pipes. "They get it somewhere," he said to himself. "For a week not a

man has gone to McCane's and not a man of his has been here. There's

only one answer. They've got a _cache_."

Having reached this conclusion by the Holmes process of elimination, he

began a new line of investigation; and he was struck by the popularity

of the tote road as a promenade. There was no reason why the men should

not walk on it, and it bore directly away from McCane's camp, but in the

light of his deduction the fact had to be explained.

MacNutt walked out the tote road. Over a mile from camp he saw a blazed

tree. With this as a base he began a systematic search, and finally

found beneath the butt of a windfall a small keg containing rye whiskey

of peculiarly malignant quality. In the keg was a spigot, so that each

visitor might fill a bottle for himself.

MacNutt did not demolish the keg. Instead he made a flying trip to camp.

When he returned he carried one bottle of horse liniment, half a pound

of cayenne pepper, a tin of mustard, two boxes of "Little Giant" pills,

a cake of soap, and a huge plug of black chewing tobacco. All these he

introduced to the keg's interior and replaced the spigot. This took

time. Afterward he took fifteen minutes' violent exercise in shaking the

keg.

Thus it was that Hicks, up-ending Chartrand's bottle with a grin of pure

anticipation, suddenly choked and gagged, for he had taken two mighty

swallows before the taste reached his toughened palate. Now two swallows

may not make a summer, but they may make a very sick lumber jack. The

winter forest echoed to the sounds of upheaval. Between paroxysms Hicks

cursed Chartrand. The latter regarded him in amazement.

"W'at's de mattaire wit' you, hey?" he queried. "Mo' Gee! I t'ink you

eat too moche grub dat you ain't chaw. S'pose you tak one leetle drink,

encore, for help hold heem down."

"I'll kill you, you blasted pea-soup!" howled Hicks. "I'll kick your

backbone up through your hat; I'll----" Here circumstances over which he

had no control interrupted him.

"I' t'ink you go crazee, me," said Chartrand. "You eat lak one dam beeg

_cochon_--de pork, de bean, de bread an' molass'--_tous les choses_. All

right. I tak heem one leetle drink, _moi-meme_. _A votre sante, mon

ami!_"

He grinned pleasantly at Hicks and tilted the bottle to his own mouth,

rolling a beatific eye as the liquid gurgled down. Suddenly he choked as

Hicks had done.

"_Sacre nom du bon Dieu!_" he shrieked, spitting like a cat. "What is it

that it is? Ah, holy Sainte Agathe, I am poison' lak one wolf! Ah, _bon

Saint Jean Baptiste, venez mes secours_, for I have been one sinful man!

_Sacre dam_, I burn lak hell inside!"

Hicks, sitting weakly on a log, his hands clasped across his outraged

epigastrium, watched Chartrand's gyrations with huge satisfaction, and

roared vindictive sarcasm at the final catastrophe.

"Eat too much grub that I don't chaw, do I?" he mocked. "Make a pig of

meself wid pork an' beans, hey? Take some yerself, me laddybuck. That's

right--tie yerself in knots. How would ye like another little drink to

help hold her down?"

In the end they sat together on the log, cursing in two languages, and

regarding the fragments of the broken bottle balefully. Chartrand rose

and picked up a heavy club.

"Bagosh, I bus' up dat keg for sure!" he announced. But Hicks, whose

wisdom was of the serpentine variety, demurred.

"Let the boys find it out for themselves," he counselled. "If we give

ourselves away we get the dirty laugh."

Therefore there descended upon the camp a sudden sickness amounting to

an epidemic; for the effects of MacNutt's concoction, though violent and

immediate, were also far-reaching and enduring. The foreman noted the

victims of his strategy, issued them chlorodyne from the van, and kept

his mouth shut. He had won the first round, but he knew very well it was

only a preliminary. Rough Shan was still to be reckoned with.